THE  LYRIC  BOUGH 


BY 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH   tf  COMPANY 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
JAMES  POTT  &  COMPANY 


The  author  desires  to  thank  the  editors  of  The 
Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Century  Magazine,  Harper's 
Magazine,  Scribner  s  Magazine,  and  the  other  peri 
odicals  in  which  the  poems  in  this  collection  origi 
nally  appeared,  for  their  kind  permission  to  reprint. 


CONTENTS 


SOUL  TO  BODY      ........  l 

THE  GRAY  INN     ........  2 

THE  BROTHERS      ...        .....  4 

THE  SLEEPER         ........  5 

THE  DREAMER       ........  7 

A  VERNAL  SONG    ........  9 

THE  HIDDEN  BEAUTY  .......  ir 

THE  WIND     .......        .        .  12 

THE  JESSAMINE  BOWER         ......  !4 

APRIL-LOVER          ........  l^ 

THE  ABBEY  BY  THE  SKELL  ......  J8 

A  WANDERER         ........  20 

THE  VERNAL  FIRE         .......  22 

STREAM  Music       ........  24 

THE  SUMMONER    ........  25 

THE  SONG     .........  27 

LYRIC  TIME   .........  29 

THE  HOUSE  MELODIOUS       ......  3i 

WHEN  VIOLETS  ARE  IN  THEIR  PRIME          .        .        -33 

WOODLAND  SONG  ........  34 

EVENING  IN  SALISBURY  CLOSE     .        .        .        .        -35 


vi  CONTENTS 

THE  VISITOR         .... 

GAFFER  TIME        .... 

WHERE  ECHO  DWELLS 

A  SUMMER  DAY    .... 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  WOODLAND    . 

THE  WOOD  THRUSH  AT  EVE 

THE  SUMMONS       .... 

HALCYON  WEATHER 

POET  AND  LOVER 

THE  NIGHT  BEAUTIFUL 

THE  QUESTING  FOOT    . 

SUMMER  REGNANT 

A  SUMMER  PASTORAL    . 

THE  EARTH-LOVER 

THE  GYPSY  WIND 

BEE-BALM       ..... 

A  SUNSET  BREEZE 

AN  IDLE  DAY        .... 

THE  HALCYON       .... 

SONG  OF  THE  MORNING  STARS     . 

THE  JESTER  AND  THE  BUTTERFLIES 

IVY  LANE      

OF  RHYME     

RAIN 

MAID'S  SONG  IN  MOURNING 
THE  WARBLER       .... 
DOVES  IN  THE  RAIN 
AN  AUTUMN  SONG 


CONTENTS  vii 

PACK 

THE  WEAVER         .                         79 

THE  PIPES  OF  AUTUMN 81 

JOY  AND  SORROW 83 

CONTRASTS     .                          84 

AN  INSTRUMENT 85 

TIME       ....  86 
THE  HAUNTS  OF  YOUTH                        .         .        .        -87 

SNOWFALL      .                         88 

WINTER  DREAMS  ...                ....  89 

THE  WHITE  BIRCH                91 

HOMESICK      ...                93 

WINTER  ON  THE  HILLS                                         .        .  94 

A  WINTER  NIGHT 96 

THE  OLD  YEAR  TO  THE  NEW 97 

IN  THE  MAPLE  WOOD  .                          ....  99 

JIM  CROW      .                                                          .        .  101 

CANDLEMAS  SONG 103 

THE  WANDERER  AT  HOME 105 

THE  ISLE  OF  GLAMOURIE      .                ....  107 

THE  FOUNT  OF  PAVENAY 109 

AZALAIS Il1 

GUIDO,  THE  GONDOLIER 113 

LIFT  UP  THINE  EYES 118 


//  the  things  of  earth  must  pass 
Like  the  dews  upon  the  grass, 
Like  the  mists  that  break  and  run 
At  the  forward  sweep  of  the  sun, 
I  shall  be  satisfied 
If  only  the  dreams  abide. 

Nay,  I  would  not  be  shorn 

Of  gold  from  the  mines  of  morn! 

I  would  not  be  bereft 

Of  the  last  blue  flower  in  the  cleft, — 

Of  the  haze  that  haunts  the  hills, 

Or  the  moon  that  the  midnight  fills! 

Still  would  I  know  the  grace 

Upon  love's  uplifted  face, 

And  the  slow,  sweet  joy-dawn  there 

Under  the  dusk  of  her  hair. 

I  pray  thee,  spare  me,  Fate, 
The  woeful,  wearying  weight 
Of  a  heart  that  feels  no  pain 
At  the  sob  of  the  autumn  rain, 
And  takes  no  breath  of  glee 
From  the  organ-surge  of  the  sea, — 
Of  a  mind  wh?re  memory  broods 
Over  songless  solitudes! 
I  shall  be  satisfied 
If  only  the  dreams  abide. 


THE    LYRIC    BOUGH 


SOUL   TO   BODY 

AND  thus  my  Soul  unto  my  Body  said, 

With  strenuous  hardihead: 

"  Hear  thou  this  word ! 

The  guests  that  thou  wert  wonted  to  invite 

For  eye,  or  ear,  or  for  sweet  lip-delight, 

Shall  not  within  this  house  be  harbored! 

I  have  been  midnight-mute,  and  not  demurred, 

Alas,  too  long! 

Henceforward  shall  I  sternly  ward  the  door, 

To  any  knocking  there,  attaint  with  wrong, 

Ready  to  cry,  '  No  more ! ' 

Albeit  fond  familiars,  fair  of  face, 

Come  smilingly,  they  shall  not  step  within, — 

Beauty,  nor  Blithesomeness,  nor  vernal  Grace, — 

If  these  are  but  the  glozing  cloak  of  Sin ! 

Clean-swept    are    all    the    rooms,     and    garnished 

greenly, 

And  set  about  with  Purity's  white  flower; 
There  sitteth  Peace  serenely 
From  the  clear  stroke  of  this  renewed  hour; 
Hereafter  shall  be  incense  lifted  only 
To  that  pure  Love  that  knoweth  no  alloy; 
And  thou,  O  Body,  thou  shalt  not  be  lonely 
With  thy  new  comrade — Joy!  " 


THE   GRAY    INN 

AND  at  the  last  he  came  to  a  gray  inn, 

About  which  all  was  gray, 

E'en  to  the  sky  that  overhung  the  day ; 

And  though  in  time  long  lapsed  it  might  nave  been 

Bedecked  with  tavern  gauds,  naught  now  it  bore 

Above  the  shambling  door 

Saving  a  creaky  sign, 

Whereon  the  storm  had  blurred  each  limned  line. 

The  portal  hung  a-cringe, 

Belike  to  fall  from  off  its  one  bruised  hinge; 

And  on  the  deep-set  casement's  leaded  panes 

The  spiders  wove  their  geometric  skeins. 

Hot  weariness  was  on  him, — he  must  rest; 

And  though  he  deemed  to  find  no  other  guest, 

No  comradeship,  within 

The  ghostly  grayness  of  that  sombre  inn, 

Lo,  as  he  crossed  the  lintel  he  beheld, 

In  the  packed  gloom 

Of  the  low-raftered  room, 

One  from  whose  eyes  the  mysteries  of  eld 

Shone  in  lack-lustre  wise! 


THE   GRAY   INN  3 

And  oh,  the  unfathomable  strangeness  of  those  eyes ! 

From  boot  to  drooping  plume 

jray-garmented  was  he,  and  his  still  face 

Was  like  the  wan  sea  when  the  banked  clouds  chase 

Above  it  through  the  winter's  iron  skies. 

Dne  lean  hand  held  a  box  of  shaken  dice, 

And  in  a  trice 

This  grim  and  gray  one  cried,  "  Come,  throw  with 

me! 

have  I  waited  thee." 
And  he  late-entered  answered,  "  Naught  have  I 
To  wager!  "     And  the  gray  one  made  reply, 
'  Thou  hast  thy  soul,  and  shouldst  thou  cast  and 

win, 

Lo,  all  the  hoarded  treasure  of  this  inn !  " 
They  gripped  and  cast,  but,  ere  he  saw  which  won, 
The  sleeper  stirred  and  woke, — the  dream  was  done ! 
Within  his  breast  there  throbbed  a  stabbing  sting: 
That  day,  for  wealth,  and  what  its  trappings  bring, 
iie  knew  his  hand  would  do  an  evil  thing. 


THE    BROTHERS 

IN  a  dim-litten  room 

I  saw  a  weaver  plying  at  his  loom, 

That  ran  as  swiftly  as  an  agile  rhyme; 

And  lo,  the  workman  at  the  loom  was  Time, 

Weaving  the  web  of  Life! 

'Twas  parti-colored,  wrought  of  Peace  and  Strife ; 

And  through  the  warp  thereof 

Shot  little  golden  threads  of  Joy  and  Love. 

And  one  stood  by  whose  eyes  were  brimmed  with 

tears, 

Poising  the  mighty  shears 

Wherewith,  when  seemed  the  weaver's  will  at  ebb, 
He  cut  the  wondrous  web. 


Time  weaves  and  weaves;  and  his  dark  brother,  he 
Will  one  day  cut  the  web  for  you  and  me. 


THE    SLEEPER 

ABOVE  the  cloistral  valley, 

Above  the  druid  rill, 
There  lies  a  heavy  sleeper 

Upon  a  lonely  hill. 

All  the  long  days  of  summer 
The  low  winds  whisper  by, 

And  the  soft  voices  of  the  leaves 
Make  murmurous  reply. 

All  the  long  eves  of  autumn 

The  loving  shadows  mass 
Round  this  sequestered  slumbering-place 

Beneath  the  cool  hill  grass. 

All  the  long  nights  of  winter 
The  white  drifts  heap  and  heap 

To  form  a  fleecy  coverlet 
Above  the  dreamer's  sleep. 
5 


THE    SLEEPER 

All  the  long  morns  of  springtime 
The  tear-drops  of  the  dew 

Gleam  in  the  violets'  tender  eyes 
As  if  the  blossoms  knew. 


Ah,  who  would  break  the  rapture 
Brooding  and  sweet  and  still, 

The  great  peace  of  the  sleeper 
Upon  the  lonely  hill! 


THE    DREAMER 

THROUGHOUT  his  span  of  argent  days 
From  birth  to  death, — a  narrow  zone,- 

He  wanders  by  untrodden  ways, 
Alone,  yet  not  alone. 

For  ariel  fancy  moulds  him  mirth, 
A  slave  to  work  his  lightest  whim ; 

And  every  vagrant  wind  of  earth 
Is  company  for  him. 

He  sees  a  brother  in  the  star 

Set  on  the  evening's  violet  verge, 

And  like  his  own  the  pulse-beats  are 
In  the  deep  ocean  surge. 

He  finds  a  fellow  in  the  tree 
Reliant  in  its  thews  of  power, 

And,  rival  of  the  lover  bee, 
H«  woos  the  lady  flower. 
7 


THE    DREAMER 

He  from  the  poet  brook  beguiles 
The  secret  of  its  clearest  rhyme, 

And  year  on  shortening  year  he  smiles 
In  the  hard  face  of  Time. 


So  when  he  slips  from  earth  at  last, 
This  alien  in  the  clay,  it  seems 

As  though  from  bondage  he  had  passed 
To  other  dearer  dreams. 


A   VERNAL   SONG 

WHO'S  with  me?    Who's  with  me? 

Come,  ye  lads  and  lasses! 
For  the  bird  is  in  the  tree, 

And  the  south-wind  passes, 
Making  wooing  melody 

In  the  leaning  grasses! 

Every  migrant  of  the  earth 
Knows  the  sap  runs  mellow; 

Every  thing  of  roving  birth 
Feels  the  spring  his  fellow; 

Up  and  down,  with  flooding  mirth, 
Capers  Punchinello. 

Wheresoe'er  we  look  abroad, 

Lo,  the  sky  caresses! 
Cowslips  perk  and  wind-flowers  nod 

In  their  dainty  dresses; 
Gleam  upon  the  woodland  sod 

Violets  and  cresses. 
9 


io  A    VERNAL   SONG 

Every  laneway  hath  its  lure, 
Every  path  its  pledges; 

There  is  happiness,  be  sure, 
Hidden  in  the  hedges, 

And  where  rills  go  purling  pure 
Down  the  mossy  ledges. 

So,  since  joy  is  in  the  land, 
Come,  ye  lads  and  lasses! 

Let  us  rove,  a  loving  band, 
Where  the  south-wind  passes, 

Hand  in  hand,  hand  in  hand, 
Through  the  leaning  grasses! 


THE    HIDDEN    BEAUTY 

BEHIND  the  opalescence  of  the  dawn, 

Noon's  opulent  sapphire,  and  that  glory  known 

As  sunset,  that  nor  pen  nor  brush  can  paint, 

There  lurks  a  hidden  beauty  that  the  soul 

In  its  exalted  moods  attains  unto, — 

An  essence  finer  than  the  grosser  sense 

Can  grasp,  too  slight,  too  tenuous  for  words. 

Such  beauty  dawned  upon  young  Raphael's  eyes, 

And  on  the  seer-like  sight  of  Angelo; 

It  came  to  Shakespeare  amid  London  murk, 

And  hung  before  the  raptured  gaze  of  Keats 

Until  they  laid  him  under  Roman  mould. 

Year-long  we  walk  the  world,  our  vision  set 
Upon  its  dull  and  dead  realities. 
"Away  with  dreams!"  the  strenuous  moilers  cry: 
"  Fling  all  such  foolish  flimsies  to  the  winds !  " 
O  sightless  ones!  better  an  hour  with  dreams, 
Upon  some  hill-top  hallowed  by  the  morn, 
Than  heaped  days  unlit  by  Beauty's  face! 


THE   WIND 

O  THE  wind  is  a  faun  in  the  spring-time 

When  the  ways  are  green  for  the  tread  of  the 

May; 

List!  hark  his  lay! 
Whist!  mark  his  play! 

T-r-r-r-1! 
Hear  how  gay! 

O  the  wind  is  a  dove  in  the  summer 

When  the  ways  are  bright  with  the  wash  of  the 

moon  ; 

List!  hark  him  tune! 
Whist!  mark  him  swoon! 

C-o-o-o-o ! 
Hear  him  croon ! 

O  the  wind  is  a  gnome  in  the  autumn 

When  the  ways  are  brown  with  the  leaf  and  burr  ; 
Hist!  mark  him  stir! 
List!  hark  him  whir! 

S-s-s-s-t ! 

Hear  him  chirr! 
12 


THE    WIND  13 

O  the  wind  is  a  wolf  in  the  winter 

When  the  ways  are  white  for  the  horned  owl; 
Hist!  mark  him  prowl! 
List!  hark  him  howl! 

G-r-r-r-1! 
Hear  him  growl! 


THE   JESSAMINE    BOWER 

I  KNOW  a  bower  where  the  jessamine  blows, 
Far  in  the  forest's  remotest  repose; 

If  once  the  eyes  have  beholden  the  golden 
Chalices  swinging,  farewell  to  the  rose! 

Just  at  the  bloom-burst  of  dawn  is  the  hour 
God  must  have  fashioned  the  delicate  flower, 

Wrought  it  of  sunlight  and  thrilled  it  and  filled  it 
With  a  beguiling  aroma  for  dower. 

Here  hath  the  air  an  enchantment  that  seems 
Borne  from  the  bourn  of  desire  and  of  dreams, — 
Borne  from  the  bourn  of  youth's  longing  where 

thronging 
Dwell  all  love's  glories  and  glamours  and  gleams. 

Here  doth  the  palm-plume  o'er-droop  and  the  pine; 
Here  doth  the  wild-grape  distil  its  dark  wine; 

Here  the  chameleon,  gliding  and  hiding, 
Changes  its  hues  in  the  shade  and  the  shine. 
14 


THE   JESSAMINE    BOWER  15 

Luring  the  lights  are  that  falter  and  fail, — 
Beryl  and  amber  and  amethyst  pale, 

Splashes  of  radiant  splendor,  and  tender 
Tints  as  when  twilight  is  deep  in  a  dale. 

By  no  bold  bees  are  the  stillnesses  stirred; 
Scarce  is  there  bubble  of  song  from  a  bird, 

Save  for  the  turtle-dove's  cooing  and  wooing, — 
Rapture  without  an  articulate  word. 


Sway  on,  O  censers  of  bloom  and  of  balm! 
Sweeten  the  virginal  cloisters  of  calm! 

Be  there  one  spot  lovely,  lonely,  where  only 
Peace  is  the  priestess  and  silence  the  psalm! 


APRIL-LOVER 

APRIL-LOVER,  let  us  seek  together 

Yon  green  slope  beneath  the  summit  snows, 
Footing  blithely  through  the  crystal  weather 

Toward  the  spot  where  the  arbutus  blows! 


April-lover,  hear  the  lyric  valley 

Shouting  all  the  vernal  cries  of  earth! — 

Voice  of  brooks,  and  tongues  of  winds  that  rally, 
The  sweet  bird-recessional  of  mirth. 


April-lover,  see  the  mounting  splendor 
Of  the  sunshine  marching  on  before! 

Mark  the  budding  colors,  twilight-tender, 
Revelling  by  rill  and  river  shore! 

April-lover,  scent  the  subtle  attar, — 

Finer  than  from  flowers  of  orient  dye, — 

That  the  lavish  courier-breezes  scatter 
As  they  journey  up  and  down  the  sky ! 
16 


APRIL-LOVER  17 

April-lover,  ah,  my  April-lover, 

I  at  heart  am  with  you  when  you  say, 

There's  no  time  like  that  when  we  discover 
Spring  upon  her  olden,  golden  way! 


THE   ABBEY   BY   THE    SKELL 

IN  the  abbey  by  the  Skell, 

O  the  lapsing  of  the  years 
Since  the  last  monastic  bell 

Sounded  sad  upon  the  ears 
Of  the  holy  men  who  there 
Bowed  in  final  praise  and  prayer! 


All  day  long  the  doves  make  moan 

In  the  over-topping  tower; 
From  the  crevices  of  stone 

Waves  the  grass  and  nods  the  flower; 
And  yet  still  doth  grandeur  dwell 
In  the  abbey  by  the  Skell. 


Gone  are  porch  and  pillar;  gone 
Are  the  windows  grand  that  gave, 

At  the  blossom-burst  of  dawn, 
Such  a  glory  to  the  nave, 

Such  a  soft,  celestial  spell 

To  the  abbey  by  the  Skell. 
18 


THE    ABBEY    BY   THE   SKELL  19 

Mourns  the  immemorial  yew 
In  the  cloisters  green  and  wide 

For  the  brother  band  that  grew 
By  the  singing  river's  side; 

Now  but  one  its  tale  can  tell 

Of  the  abbey  by  the  Skell. 

What  a  sermon  here  is  writ 

By  the  ancient  hand  of  Time! 
We  have  paused  to  ponder  it, 

And  would  weave  the  text  in  rhyme 
Ere  we  breathe  our  low  farewell 
To  the  abbey  by  the  Skell. 

By  a  miracle  of  birth 

Beauty  buddeth  from  decay, 
So  a  godly  work  on  earth 

Never  fadeth  quite  away, 
Though  it  be  not  tangible 
Like  the  abbey  by  the  Skell. 


A   WANDERER 

Now  that  the  gulfs  of  dusk  are  deep, 

And  birds  have  hushed  their  happy  themes, 

I  wander  down  the  aisles  of  sleep 
Hung  with  the  tapestry  of  dreams. 

The  little  silvery  winds  go  by 

With  fluting  softly  passional ; 
The  stars  march  up  the  midnight  sky, 

And  yet  I  heed  them  not  at  all. 

For  I  have  felt  the  enchanter's  wand, 
And  know  my  soul,  released  once  inure, 

As  elemental  as  the  frond 

Amid  the  mosses  by  the  shore. 

What  now  to  me  the  coil  of  clay, 

Since  I  may  fare,  at  my  desire, 
Beyond  the  azure  bourns  of  day, 

Beyond  the  utmost  planet's  fire! 


A    WANDERER  21 

All  nature's  vast,  mysterious  face 

'Tis  mine, — an  intimate, — to  see; 
I  taste  for  just  a  breathing  space 

The  freedom  of  eternity. 

A  breathing  space! — and  then, — and  then, 

The  robins'  matins,  and  I  rouse, 
To  find  that  I  am  once  again 

In  my  contracted  prison-house. 


THE   VERNAL   FIRE 

FROM  tip  to  tip  of  the  briar, 
I  see  it  kindle  and  run, — 

The  mystical,  vernal  fire 
Whose  source  is  the  sun. 


Along  the  slopes  it  thrills, 
Greening  the  umber  mould, 

And  it  spangles  the  marge  of  the  rills 
With  the  cowslip-gold. 

It  flashes  out  on  the  cheek 

That  the  rathe  hepatica  turns; 

And  the  violet,  shy  and  meek, 
With  its  ardor  burns. 

Every  bearing  bough 

Is  prescient,  and  every  blade, 
From  the  mountain's  brackened  brow 

To  the  depths  of  the  glade. 


THE    VERNAL   FIRE  23 

I  feel  it,  too, — am  fain 

With  a  touch  of  the  old  desire; 
My  lost  youth  comes  again 

With  the  vernal  fire. 


Love,  your  hand  once  more! 

Would  that  the  dream  might  stay, — 
The  rapt  dream  o'er  and  o'er, 

For  aye  and  a  day! 


STREAM    MUSIC 

WHENE'ER  I  wander  up  and  down  the  world, 
Treading  the  shores  of  its  great  water-ways, 
And  listening  to  their  tidal  undertones, — 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhone,  the  Danube,  or  the  Nile,- 
'Tis  not  their  music  that  I  seem  to  hear, 
(Their  laughing  trebles,  or  deep  organ-strains,) 
But  rather  the  clear  singing  of  a  stream 
That  flows  melodious  by  the  doors  of  home! 
My  ear  may  not  escape  it;  and,  at  last, 
When  it  shall  be  my  turn  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  Dark  River  to  adventure  forth, 
It  shall  be  then  as  now.    I  know  the  sound 
Will  not  portentous  seem,  nor  sad,  nor  strange, 
But  soft  and  soothing  as  the  murmur  borne 
In  days  of  childhood  by  the  doors  of  home! 


24 


THE    SUMMONER 

'TwAS  this  morning  when  the  winds  were  rocking 
Larch  and  linden  with  a  rhythmic  swing, 

; 

That  the  crested  woodpecker  came  knocking 
For  admission  at  the  door  of  Spring. 

"  Open  open!  "  seemed  he  to  be  saying, 
"  For  the  portal  has  been  shut  too  long; 

We  are  grown  impatient  for  the  Maying, 
And  the  sweet  processional  of  song! 

"  For  the  buoyant  outring  of  brook-laughter; 

For  the  meadows  goldening  to  smiles; 
For  the  soft  green  on  the  woodland  rafter, 

And  the  bloom-burst  down  the  forest  aisles!" 


Still  I  saw  about  me  glow  and  glisten 
Ancient  Winter's  white  environing, 

As  I  leaned  in  eagerness  to  listen 
To  the  sibyl  answer  of  the  Spring. 
25 


26  THE    SUMMONER 

Then,  responsive  to  the  bird's  insistence, 
From  the  margin  of  some  cloistral  shore 

Came  a  murmur  up  the  hollow  distance, 
"  On  the  morrow  will  I  ope  the  door!  " 


Hail,  thou  summoner  of  the  azure  weather, 
Herald  of  Spring's  portal  backward  thrown! 

With  another  sunrise  we  together 
Once  again  shall  win  unto  our  own! 


THE    SONG 

Out  of  wind  and  sun  and  dew 
I  would  shape  a  song  for  you! 

First  from  out  the  wind  should  be 
Happy  hints  of  melody; 
Little  rippling  slips  of  tone, 
To  the  ear  of  evening  known ; 
Tiny  echoes  of  the  shell 
Breathed  into  by  ocean's  swell; 
Lark-note,  nightingale  and  thrush, 
Rustling  bough  and  river  rush. 

Then  the  sun  should  yield  its  shine, 
Golden  words  for  every  line; 
Glints  of  skyey  amber  ore, — 
Simile  and  metaphor; 
Throbbing  wave-beats,  vital,  warm, 
Passion  in  its  noblest  form, 
Morning's  ecstasy  of  light 
After  the  surcease  of  night. 
27 


28  THE   SONG 

From  the  globe  of  dew  should  come 
Crystals  of  exordium; 
Essences  of  prismy  blend 
Joining  opening  and  end; 
And  a  close  of  flawless  pearl, 
Whorl  upon  pellucid  whorl; 
Every  thought  as  virgin  clear 
As  the  perfect  parent  sphere. 

Out  of  wind  and  sun  and  dew 
I  would  shape  a  song  for  you! 


LYRIC  TIME 

Now  the  sap  begins  to  climb 
In  the  linden  and  the  lime; 

With  it  mounts  the  olden  rapture; 
Masters,  it  is  lyric  time! 


Young  desire  along  the  vein 
Quickens  to  a  throbbing  strain, 

And  the  spirit  fain  would  capture 
Vanished  ecstasy  again. 


Flushing  into  prismy  hues, 
Every  dormant  thing  renews; 

All  along  each  vernal  valley 
Countless  colors  form  and  fuse. 


Every  thicket  over-spills 
With  a  myriad  mellow  trills; 

Sally  upon  silvery  sally 
Echoes  up  and  down  the  hills. 
29 


30  LYRIC   TIME 

Runs  from  tree  to  vocal  tree 
An  elusive  harmony; 

Now  a  whisper  faint  and  fleeting, 
Now  a  chorus  full  and  free. 


Brook  to  singing  brook  replies; 
Fount  with  welling  fountain  vies; 

O  the  music  of  the  meeting 
Of  the  mountains  and  the  skies! 


Dawn  or  sunset, — dim  or  bright, — 
Every  hour  evokes  delight; 

To  evolve  the  perfect  pecan 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  unite. 


Life  seems  set  to  smoother  rhyme, 
And  the  trivial  grows  sublime; 
Under  God's  blue  empvrean, 
Masters,  it  is  lyric  time! 


THE    HOUSE    MELODIOUS 

THERE'S  a  mighty  house  of  marvels  builded 
Wherein  all  the  spacious  rooms  are  free; 

With  warm  sunlight  are  the  rafters  gilded, 
And  with  sapphire  gleams  the  high  roof-tree. 


'Tis  a  house  no  human  master  fashioned, 
Tremulous  with  sudden  hopes  and  fears; 

God  aforetime  reared  it  to  the  impassioned 
Vibrant  music  of  the  swinging  spheres. 

Not  in  one  diurnal  round  he  raised  it, 
But  with  slow  accretions  moulded  he; 

And  when  he  beheld  his  work  he  praised  it, 
And  he  dowered  its  heart  with  melody. 

Spreading  arch  and  spraying  plinth  and  pillar, 
Night-tide,  bright-tide,  never  are  they  mute, — 

Now  high  pipings  than  the  hautboy  shriller, 
Now  low  whisperings  softer  than  the  lute! 
31 


32  THE   HOUSE   MELODIOUS 

Far  as  the  imagination  ranges, — 
Tempest  and  tranquillity  of  tone, — 

Here  are  all  the  sweet  mysterious  changes 
That  unto  the  ear  of  man  are  known! 


Aye,  and  when  the  radiant  morn  is  gilding 
Where  the  immemorial  roof-tree  rears, 

One  may  feel  how  God  is  ever  building 
To  the  music  of  the  swinging  spheres! 


WHEN  VIOLETS  ARE  IN  THEIR  PRIME 

WHEN  violets  are  in  their  prime, 

And  skies  are  like  my  true  love's  eyes, 
When  we  forget  the  rut  and  rime 
In  hearkening  to  the  thrush's  cries, 
Howe'er  so  sweet  the  minstrelsy 
Within  doors  with  the  poets  be, 
'Tis  not  for  me,  'tis  not  for  me ! 

Merry,  forsooth,  the  ingle-mirth, 

When  days  are  brief  and  nights  are  long! 
And  if  the  leaguer  walk  the  earth, 
Dear,  then,  the  solacing  of  song; 
But  now  for  me  the  rillet's  rhyme, 
The  wooing  airs,  the  wild  bird's  chime, 
When  violets  are  in  their  prime! 


33 


WOODLAND   SONG 

VOICES  are  calling  us  out  of  the  dingle, — 

"  Come  away!  " — so  they  say, — "  come  away! 
Musical  voices  that  mellowly  mingle; 

"  Here,"  they  declare,  "  'mid  the  ferns  and  the 

mosses, 

You  may  lay  by  all  your  losses  and  crosses! 
Out  through  the  gold  of  the  day 
Come  away !  " 

"  Under  the  trees  there  is  waiting  a  treasure! 

"  Come  away!  " — voices  say, — "  come  away! 
O  such  a  manifold  measure  of  pleasure; — 
Worry  forgotten ;  no  care  for  a  burden ; 
Freedom  for  friend  and  heart-joy  for  a  guer 
don; 

Through  the  fresh  green  of  the  May 
Come  away !  " 


34 


EVENING   IN    SALISBURY   CLOSE 

THE  sudden  sunlight  swept  the  minster-close, 
Day's  expiation  for  its  hours  of  gloom; 
And  every  figure  on  the  fair  fagade, 
Each  saint  with  hand  uplifted,  gained  a  grace, 
A  happier  halo  than  the  sculptor's  art, 
Howe'er  so  marvel-working,  had  bestowed. 
Only  the  pillared  porch  and  those  deep  eyes, 
The  windows  wide  that  ever  watch  the  west, 
Caught  the  wind-wavering  shadows  of  the  elms. 
All  the  great  Gothic  glory  of  the  spire 
Reached  heavenward  irradiate;  gray  to  gold 
By  momentary  magic  turned,  and  poised 
Like  some  aerial  pinnacle  of  dream. 
And  while  the  sight  hung  on  the  miracle, 
Out  of  the  silent  symmetry  of  the  tower 
Slipped  down  the  unseen  silver  of  the  chimes, 
Softer  than  snowfall,  soothing  as  the  sense 
Of  slumber  after  vigils  held  till  dawn. 


35 


THE   VISITOR 

WITHOUT  my  door  at  morning-tide 
There  rang  a  summons  hale  and  fair; 

I  roused  and  threw  the  portal  wide, 
And  lo,  young  April  there! 

I  saw  the  sunlight  in  her  eyes, 
And  her  anemone  lips  aglow; 

She  beckoned  in  beguiling  wise; 
I  could  not  choose  but  go. 

The  grass  beneath  her  quickening  feet 
Rippled  with  silvery  green  once  more, 

And  many  a  rill  ran  singing  sweet 
By  many  a  leaning  shore. 

She  led  me  high  among  the  hills 

By  paths  that  wilding  wanderers  use, 

Where  the  magician  Morn  distils 
The  honey  of  his  dews. 
36 


THE    VISITOR  37 

Bloom-secrecies  she  showed  to  me, 

The  coils  through  which  all  being  stirs, 

Till,  spelled  by  her  soft  witchery, 
My  heart  was  wholly  hers. 

So  now  when  up  the  year's  bright  slope 
A  call  comes  ringing  o'er  and  o'er, 

I  fling  the  portal  wide,  in  hope 
'Tis  April  at  the  door. 


GAFFER   TIME 

OH,  who  has  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time 
Along  this  broad  highway  pass  by? 

Will  no  one  speak,  will  no  one  say, 
Of  all  this  noble  company? 


Youth,  have  you  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time? 

"Nay,"  answered  gay-heart  Youth;  "not  I! 
Though  I  be  fleet,  he  tops  the  hill, 

And  speeds  afar  ere  I  draw  nigh." 


Age,  hast  thou  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time? 

"Nay,"  halting  Age  replied;  "not  I! 
Though  I  have  laid  him  many  a  snare, 

He  slips  through  every  mesh  I  try." 

Joy,  hast  thou  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time? 

"Nay,"  answered  smiling  Joy;  "not  I! 
Why  should  I  care  to  look  for  one 

Who  makes  a  mockery  of  my  cry  ?  " 

38 


GAFFER   TIME  39 

Sorrow,  hast  thou  seen  Gaffer  Time? 

"  Nay,"  glooming  Sorrow  quoth;  "  not  I! 
Still  he  evades  my  questing  step, 

Albeit  our  paths  together  lie." 

Love,  hast  thou  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time? 

"  Nay,"  white-browed  Love  replied ;  "  not  I ! 
Though  I  have  begged  him  show  his  face, 

Yet  he  vouchsafes  me  no  reply." 


Death,  hast  thou  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time? 

"  Nay,"  answered  quiet  Death ;  "  not  I ! 
Why  should  I  tryst  with  such  as  he, 

Who  is  of  those  that  do  not  die?  " 


Then  none  has  seen  gray  Gaffer  Time 
Of  all  so  wise  a  company; 

And  I  who  seek  him  up  and  down, 
Alas!  alas!  what  chance  have  I? 


WHERE    ECHO    DWELLS 

SOME  summer  morn  immersed  in  calm, 
When  every  wafture  breathes  of  balm, 
Take  you  the  pathway  under  hill, 
Night-haunted  by  the  whippoorwill, 
Until,  where  beech  and  birch  confer, 
And  hemlocks  make  their  harp-like  stir, 
A  sweeping  amphitheatre 
Opes,  golden  green,  upon  the  view; 
There  Echo  dwells,  and  waits  for  you. 


The  elderberry  every  hour 
Adds  to  the  purple  of  its  dower; 
With  every  dusk,  with  every  dawn, 
The  mandrake  fruit  takes  amber  on; 
A  gossip  brook  gives  happy  hint 
Of  spruce  and  sassafras  and  mint; 
While  overhead,  a  luring  tint, 
The  vast  vault  arches,  virgin  blue; 
There  Echo  dwells,  and  waits  for  you. 
40 


WHERE    ECHO    DWELLS  41 

If  you  bespeak  her  loud  or  low, 
At  night-heart,  or  at  morning-glow, 
Trump-clear,  or  subtle-sweet  and  shy, 
Swiftly  her  voice  will  make  reply. 
Never  beheld,  or  near  or  far, 
Elusive  as  blown  perfumes  are, 
Evasive  as  a  falling  star, 
With  all  her  ariel  retinue, 
Fair  Echo  dwells,  and  waits  for  you ! 


A    SUMMER    DAY 

AGAIN  across  the  calm  of  morn 

The  sharp  cicada  shrills; 
Again  the  pee-wee,  lone  and  lorn, 

Pipes  from  the  wooded  hills; 
And  meadow-ward  athwart  the  plain 
Slow  moves  the  harvest  wain. 


Again  the  fever  of  the  noon 
Touches  the  toiler's  brow; 

Again  in  haze  the  grain-fields  swoon, 
And  lifeless  hangs  the  bough; 

Again  the  rill,  its  course  along, 

Hushes  its  under-song. 

Again  the  pensive  eve  draws  on, 
And  earth's  fast-closing  eyes 

A  space  are  raised  to  dwell  upon 
The  wonder  of  the  skies; 

Again  untroubled,  boundless,  deep, 

Broods  the  vast  sea  of  sleep. 


42 


THE    LURE   OF   THE   WOODLAND 

GREEN  o'  leaf,  sheen  o'  leaf,  tremulous,  wavery, 
Where  down  the  aisleways  the  errant  airs  blow; 

Arras  of  maple-boughs, — emerald  bravery! 
Always  the  twilight,  and  never  the  glow. 

Wren-call    and    glen-call, — a    thrush    fluting    mel 
lowly, — 

And  a  far  whippoorwill,  mournful  and  faint, 
Then  a  near  robin-note,  friendly  and  fellowly, 

And  the  small  phoebe-bird's  die-away  plaint. 

Rook-gabble,  brook-babble ;  jewel-weed  shimmering  ; 

And  the  tall  bee-balm  with  torches  alight; 
And  in  the  darksomemost  recesses  glimmering, 

Lo,  the  white  ghost-flowers,  like  stars  in  the  night ! 

Lure  o'  heart,  every  part, — mystery,  magicry; 

Wonder! — a  world  of  it  hid  from  the  day! 
Cure  for  care  everywhere,  balm  for  life's  tragicry; 

Up,  then,  my  comrade,  and  let  us  away! 


43 


THE   WOOD   THRUSH    AT   EVE 

AT  the  wood  edge,  what  time  the  sun  sank  low, 
We  lingered  speechless,  being  loath  to  leave 
The  cool,  the  calm,  the  quiet  touch  of  eve, 

And  all  the  glamour  of  the  afterglow. 

We  watched  the  purple  shadows  lengthen  slow, 
Saw   the   swift  swallows  through  the  clear  air 

cleave, 
And  bats  begin  their  wayward  flight  to  weave, 

Then  rose  reluctantly,  and  turned  to  go. 

But  ere  we  won  beyond  the  warder  trees, 

From  out  the  dim  deep  copse  that  hid  the  swale 

Welled  of  a  sudden  flutelike  harmonies 

Flooding  the  twilight,  scale  on  silvery  scale, 

As  though  we  heard,  far  o'er  the  sundering  seas, 
The  pain  and  passion  of  the  nightingale. 


44 


THE    SUMMONS 

I  HEAR  the  morning  calling  me 

Through  the  shut  casement,  fresh  and  clear; 
"  Come  forth,  O  laggard  one,"  saith  she, 

"And  taste  the  sweetness  of  the  year! 

"  Lo,  I  will  spread  before  your  eyes 

The  pageant  you  have  yearned  for  long; 

I  will  unfold,  in  lyric  wise, 

The  dreamed-of  ecstasies  of  song. 

"  Before  you  up  the  hills  shall  run 
Mirth,  and  her  frolic-footed  brood; 

Along  the  valleys  shall  the  sun 

Gem  all  the  dews,  in  golden  mood. 

"  The  little  brethren  of  the  boughs 

Shall  shake  their  laughters  down  the  wind; 

And  you  shall  list  the  whispered  vows 
Of  vine  and  blossom  intertwined." 

45 


46  THE   SUMMONS 

At  such  a  call,  he  who  would  bide 

Within  would  be  a  thing  for  scorn! — 

I  toss  my  tiresome  task  aside, 

And  hasten  forth  to  greet  the  morn. 


HALCYON   WEATHER 

HERE'S  to  the  halcyon  weather, 

And  the  wild,  unfettered  will, 
The  crickets  chirring,  the  west  wind  stirring 

The  hemlocks  on  the  hill ! 

Here's  to  the  faring  foot,  and  here's  to  the  dream 
ing  eye! 

And  here's  to  the  heart  that  will  not  be  still 
Under  the  open  sky! 

Ever  the  gypsy  longing 

Comes  when  the  halcyons  wing ; 
Once  you  own  it,  once  you  have  known  it, 

Oh,  the  thrall  of  the  thing! 
A  flute-call  and  a  lute-call,  quavering  loud  or  low, 

It  clutches  you  with  its  rapturing, 
And  it  will  not  let  you  go! 

So  it's  hail  to  you,  my  rover, 

The  god-child  of  the  sun! 
In  our  heir-dom, — freedom  from  care-dom, — 

You  and  I  are  one! 

47 


48  HALCYON   WEATHER 

One  with  the  many  migrants,  field-folk  feathered 

or  furred, 

Ever  ready  to  rally  and  run 
At  the  sign  of  the  silvery  word! 


The  ways  we  were  wont  to  follow, 

We  are  fain  of  them  no  more; 
Rather  the  braided  boughs  and  the  shaded 

Paths  by  the  rillet  shore! — 

The  tansy  hints  and  the  myrrh  of  mints,  and  the 
balms  that  the  balsams  shed, 

The  berries,  crimson-sweet  at  the  core, 
By  these  are  we  lured  and  led. 


Then  here's  to  the  halcyon  weather, 

And  the  old,  untrammelled  will, — 
Cicadas  tuning,  the  west  wind  crooning 

Behind  the  crest  of  the  hill! 
Here's  to  the  truant  foot,  and  here's  to  the  dream 


ing  eye 


And  here's  to  the  heart  that  will  not  be  still 
Under  the  open  sky! 


POET   AND    LOVER 

THOU  say'st  that  thou  hast  seen 
One  tread  this  greening  way 

Whose  mood  and  mien 

Were  like  the  flush  of  day! 

Looked  she  sun-wayward  smiles? 

"Aye!  aye!"  quoth  Giles. 

Thou  say'st  that  thou  hast  heard 
One  fleet  this  path  along 

Whose  every  word 

Was  like  a  matin  song! 

Joined  bird  and  brook  the  whiles? 

"Aye!  aye!"  quoth  Giles. 

Thou  say'st  that  thou  hast  known 
One,  lightly  footing,  pass, 

Sweet  as  wind-blown 

Eve-perfumes  from  the  grass! 

Breathed  she  all  flowery  wiles? 

"  Aye !  aye !  "  quoth  Giles. 
49 


5o  POET   AND    LOVER 

O  most  ecstatic  glow! 

O  wondrous  visioning! 
To  hear,  to  know, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Spring! 
What  folly  thee  beguiles? 
"  'Twas  Sylvia !  "  quoth  Giles. 


THE    NIGHT   BEAUTIFUL 

DAY-LONG  the  fiery  and  unpitying  sun 

Flamed  in  a  sky  that  glowed  like  burnished  brass  ; 

Dun  stretched  the  ribbon  of  the  road,  and  dun 
The  reaches  of  the  grass. 

In  the  still  willow  shadows  by  the  pool 
The  cattle  herded,  standing  dewlap-deep; 

And  all  the  beechen  aisles,  erewhile  so  cool, 
Were  sunk  in  fervid  sleep. 

But  with  the  dusk  the  vesper  ecstasies 

Of  the  charmed  wood-thrush  stirred  our  hearts 

to  hope; 
And  then  there  breathed  the  blessing  of  a  breeze 

Adown  the  western  slope. 

The  graceful  garden-primrose  set  alight 
Its  little  globes  of  lemon-gold,  and  soon 

High  in  the  deep  blue  garden  of  the  night 
Flowered  the  great  primrose  moon. 


5z  THE    NIGHT  ^BEAUTIFUL 

And  we  forgot  the  garishness,  the  glare, 

The  parching  meadows,  and  the  shrunken  streams, 

And  in  the  glamour  of  that  magic  air 
We  gave  ourselves  to  dreams. 


THE   QUESTING   FOOT 

Now  that  the  blue-flag  stirs  at  the  root, 
This  is  the  time  of  the  questing  foot! — 


Time  to  loiter  and  laze  along, 

With  never  a  thought  save  of  meadow-song, 


Or  of  woodland  silence  that  filters  through 
To  your  spirit's  core  like  the  balm  of  dew! 


Only  a  wisp  of  a  cloud  above, 

White  as  the  dreams  of  the  one  you  love. 


Underneath,  a  turf  whose  sheen 

Is  the  very  glossiest  gold  and  green; 

A  wind  that  lures  you  with  subtle  hints 
Of  upland  balsams  and  lowland  mints; 
S3 


54  THE    QUESTING    FOOT 

A  something, — call  it  charm  or  spell, — 
Elusive  and  intangible, 


That  leads  one  ever  and  ever  away 
On  to  the  purple  verge  of  day. 


Now  that  the  blue-flag  stirs  at  the  root, 
O  to  fare  on  the  questing  foot ! 


SUMMER   REGNANT 

WITH  sweet  reluctance  in  her  golden  eyes 

Summer  hath  put  the  imperial  rose  away, 
And  donned  her  poppy-crown,  whose  gorgeous  dyes 

Are  like  the  skies  of  the  declining  day; 

The  minstrel  wind  that  erst  was  wont  to  say 
Musical  matins  at  the  prime  of  morn 

Now  swoons  within  the  pine-tree  tops  afar; 
And  when  the  bee  forsakes  his  drowsy  horn, 

Red  glows  the  evening  star. 

It  is  the  season  of  forgetfulness, 

And  e'en  the  sharp  cicada,  fifing  high, 

Jars  us  not  back  to  any  sense  of  stress; 
We  are  content  to  let  the  hours  slip  by 
As  doth  the  stream  that  lapseth  languidly; 

Why  should  we  tease  ourselves  to  find  the  clue 
To    life's    enigmas,  —  whence,    and    why,    and 
where, — 

With  o'er  us  brooding  such  ethereal  blue, 
Such  vasts  of  halcyon  air! 
55 


56  SUMMER    REGNANT 

In  opulence  of  calm  enough  to  dwell 

On  all  the  engirdling  beauty, — to  give  o'er 
To  the  inthralment  of  the  slumberous  spell, 

Letting  it  clasp  us  as  the  sea  the  shore ! 

Like  those  that  drink  mandragora,  no  more 
We  heed  the  future,  or  what  dead  days  owned  ; 

For  us  the  present,  and  our  realm  of  dream, 
Where,  by  the  side  of  Summer,  sits  enthroned 

Love,  regnant  and  supreme! 


A   SUMMER   PASTORAL 

I  KNOW  a  little  glade  wherein  to  dwell, 

When  poppy-garlands  crown  the  drowsing  year, 
Were  honeyed  happiness, — for  I  might  hear 

The  hermit-thrush  at  twilight  from  his  cell 

Salute  the  love-star,  and  might  feel  the  spell 
That  Hylas  yielded  to,  for  subtile-clear 
The  pool  there  limns  the  deep  eyes  of  the  deer, 

And  winds  bear  draughts  of  dreamy  hydromel. 

And  closer  might  I  win  to  Arcady, 

For  reeds  there  are  to  pluck  and  notch  and  tune, 

As  in  the  simpler,  happier  days  of  man ; 
And  if  I  blew,  and  Echo  answered  me, 

Sooth,  I  might  fancy,  underneath  the  moon, 
Slim  maidens  dancing  to  the  pipes  of  Pan ! 


57 


THE    EARTH-LOVER 

BE  it  sad  or  singing  season, 

Time  of  mourning  or  of  mirth, 

With  a  lover's  blithe  unreason 
His  a  passion  for  the  earth. 

Of  the  wealth  of  his  affection 

Seed  and  leaf  and  sheaf  have  part; 

And  he  takes,  without  reflection, 
Every  growing  thing  to  heart. 

Weft  of  grass  and  blossom-petal, 
Root  of  flag  and  tip  of  reed, 

Barb  of  thorn  and  sting  of  nettle, — 
Each  contributes  to  his  need. 


And  a  love  he  would  not  smother 
Is  for  the  fresh-turned  red  loam, 

Since  he  knows  that,  like  a  mother, 
It  will  one  day  call  him  home. 

58 


THE    EARTH-LOVER  59 

From  the  old  familiar  places 

He  will  by  it  be  beguiled, 
And  within  its  warm  embraces 

Slumber  softly  as  a  child. 


THE   GYPSY   WIND 

THE  gypsy  wind  goes  down  the  night, 
I  hear  him  lilt  his  wander-call; 

And  to  the  old  divine  delight 
Am  I  a  thrall. 


It's  out,  my  heart,  beneath  the  stars 
Along  the  hillways  dim  and  deep! 

Let  those  who  will,  behind  dull  bars, 
Commune  with  sleep! 

For  me  the  freedom  of  the  sky, 
The  violet  vastnesses  that  seem 

Packed  with  a  sense  of  mystery 
And  brooding  dream! 

For  me  the  low  solicitudes 

The  tree-tops  whisper,  each  to  each, 
The  silences  wherein  intrudes 

No  mortal  speech! 
60 


THE    GYPSY   WIND  61 

For  me  far  subtler  fragrances 

Than  any  spell  of  morn  transmutes, 

And  melodies  and  minstrelsies 
From  fairy  lutes! 

My  cares, — the  harrying  throng  take  flight, 
My  woes, — they  lose  their  galling  sting, 

When  I,  with  the  hale  wind  of  night, 
Go  gypsying! 


BEE-BALM 

THE  bee  is  abroad 

In  the  zenith  heat  of  noon, 
When  all  of  the  winds  are  awed, 

And  the  waters  swoon. 


The  meads  are  asleep, 

But  never  a  buzz  cares  he; 
Down  in  the  dingle  deep 

There's  balm  for  the  bee. 


Here  are  torches  gay 

Spangled  with  scarlet  fire, 

To  light  the  dusk  of  the  way 
To  his  heart's  desire. 


What  a  bounteous  brew 

Awaiteth  his  thirsty  call! — 

Casks  of  honey-dew 
For  the  bacchanal. 


62 


A   SUNSET   BREEZE 

ALL  of  the  livelong  day  there  was  scarcely  a  rustle 

of  leaves, 
The  writhing  river  burned  like  a  molten  serpent 

of  fire; 
The  reaper  dropped  his  scythe,  and  the  binder  fled 

from  his  sheaves, 

And  a  breeze  on   the  throbbing  brow  was  the 
world's  supreme  desire. 


When  the  disk  of  the  sun  dipped  down  there  sprang 

from  out  of  the  west 
A  sudden  wafture  of  wind  that  crinkled  the  un- 

mown  grain; 
The  kine  were  glad  in  the  field,  and  the  bird  was 

glad  on  the  nest, 

And  the   heart  of   the   mother  leaped   that   her 
prayer  was  not  in  vain. 
63 


64  A   SUNSET   BREEZE 

For  the  sunset  breeze  stole  in  with  healing  upon 

its  breath, 

Winnowed  the  fevered  air  with  a  single  sweeten 
ing  sweep; 
Out  of  the  back-swung  door  slipped  the  pallid  angel 

of  death, 

And  lo,  as  the  mother  knelt,  the  baby  smiled  in 
its  sleep! 


AN    IDLE    DAY 

THIS  day  will  I  cast  off  the  coil 
Of  aging  worry  and  of  toil, 
And  seek  the  soothing  soul-caress 
Of  Idleness. 


For  sometimes  it  is  well  to  be 
Both  body-free  and  spirit-free, 
To  own  no  gyve,  no  cincturing  wall, 
No  thrall  at  all. 


The  harper  wind  strides  o'er  the  hill; 
His  truant  will  I  make  my  will; 
Two  jovial  comrades,  forth  we  hie 
Beneath  the  sky. 

We  loiter;  who  shall  cry  us  "  nay?  " 
We  hasten;  who  shall  bid  us  stay? 
By  stream  or  woodland-side  we  brood, 
As  suits  our  mood. 
65 


66  AN   IDLE   DAY 

And  ah,  the  golden  grain  I  reap 
From  this  one  long,  from  this  one  deep 
Day-dwelling,  in  the  dream-duress 
Of  Idleness! 


I  slough  the  husk  of  discontent, 
And  feel  no  longer  hedged  and  pent; 
I  look  on  all  that  round  me  lies 
With  saner  eyes. 


I  gather  from  the  bounteous  earth 
A  quiet  joy,  an  inner  mirth; 
And  life,  where'er  I  pass  along, 
Seems  set  to  song. 


THE    HALCYON 

I  SEE  thee  on  yon  sycamore's  wounded  bough, 
Apart  from  all  the  wood  choir's  silvery  noise, 

Sit  like  a  mournful  watcher  at  the  prow, 
In  lonely  equipoise. 

Yet  thou  art  harbinger  of  all  things  fair, 

For  o'er  regenerate  earth  now  seems  to  brood 

The  immaterial  loveliness  of  air, 
The  sky's  blue  vastitude. 


67 


SONG   OF   THE    MORNING   STARS 

THROUGH  the  abysses  of  the  sky 
Surge  upon  surge  the  years  sweep  by, 
Yet  still  our  spheral  voices  chime, 
For  we  are  over-lords  of  Time. 


We  view  all  secrets  face  to  face, — 
The  deep  solemnities  of  space, 
The  rayless  voids  of  outer  sea, 
The  courts  of  God's  eternity. 

It  is  our  bliss  to  be  above 
All  passions  save  eternal  Love, 
And  this  our  choral  lips  rehearse 
Throughout  the  listening  universe. 

So  shall  the  centuries  wax  and  wane 
Till  Song  and  Love  alone  remain, 
And  all  shall  join  our  deathless  chime, 
Like  us  the  over-lords  of  Time. 


68 


THE  JESTER  AND   THE   BUTTERFLIES 

FAIR  elves  of  frolic,  dancers  of  the  air, 

Gay  pirouetters  in  the  noonday  sun, 

Blithe  summer  nurslings  with  your  lives  soon  done, 
Would  I  might  all  of  your  abandon  share ! 
You  know  not  age;  'tis  never  yours  with  spare 

And  tottering  Decrepitude  to  shun 

The  primrose  pathways  that  Youth  smiles  upon, 
Who  are  like  Youth  forever  debonair. 

Thus  would  I  fain  adventure;  have  my  day 
Bright  in  the  splendid  sunlight;  never  feel 

The  clutching  cold  that  lies  in  wait  for  Age; 
Trip  to  the  summer's  jocund  roundelay 
The  madsomest,  the  merriest,  then  steal 

Sudden  and  swift  from  off  life's  comic  stage ! 


IVY   LANE 

(A  SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY  LOVE   SONG) 

IVY  LANE  in  Devon, — 

That's  the  place  for  me! 
The  sweet  air  mellow 

With  the  burden  of  the  bee; 
High  up  in  heaven 

The  blue,  blue  glow; 
But  Ivy  Lane  in  London, — 

O  no,  no! 


Bare  walls  sullen 

In  the  grim  gray  air; 
Close-shut  windows 

With  a  cold  blank  stare ; 
Never  lark  or  linnet 

A-warbling  low; 
Ivy  Lane  in  London, — 

O  no,  no! 

70 


IVY    LANE  71 

But  Ivy  Lane  in  Devon, — 

Sunlight  and  song, 
And  beauty  of  blossoms 

The  glad  day  long; 
Then  love  in  the  twilight 

With  starry  eyes  aglow  .  .  . 
Ivy  Lane  in  London, — 

O  no,  no! 

Ivy  Lane  in  London, — 

Stress  and  strain  and  strife, 
All  of  the  sweetness 

Hurried  out  of  life! 
But  far  from  the  clamor 

By  the  wide  west  sea, 
Ivy  Lane  in  Devon, — 

That's  the  place  for  me! 


OF   RHYME 

NOT  for  mine  ear 

The  rigid  rhyme  austere, 

But  that  which  swings  and  sways  with  mellow  beat, 

And  soft  recurrence  of  alluring  feet! 

Not  for  mine  eye 

The  palely  sculptured  line, 

But  that  which  hath  the  shimmer  and  the  shine 

Of  skyey  metaphor,  the  mid-day  dye 

Of  golden  simile,  and  clearly  shows 

Imagination's  emerald  and  rose! 

Bird,  brook,  and  wind-call ;  the  wild  pulse  of  storm ; 

All  life's  unnumbered  colors,  sweet  and  warm  ; 

Rapture  and  sorrow;  the  swift  flux  of  time; — 

These  would  I  have  both  sing  and  glow  in  rhyme! 


RAIN 

I  HEAR  the  soft  re-iterance  of  the  rain 

Upon  the  roof  above  me,  like  a  tune 

With  melancholy  measure,  one  as  hoar 

As  are  the  silent  footfalls  of  old  Time. 

And  though  the  burden  borne  unto  mine  ear 

Runs  in  the  plaintive  minor,  yet  my  mood 

Is  rather  one  of  rapture  than  of  pain. 

Albeit  alone,  the  demon  loneliness 

Is  by  a  kindly  angel  exorcised  ; 

I  brush  aside  the  cobwebs  of  the  years 

As  one  breaks  gossamer,  and  cloudy  morns, 

And  likewise  long  unazured  afternoons, 

Are  quick  again.     Eyes  on  responsive  eyes 

Linger  and  flash;  voice  answers  friendly  voice, 

And  laughter  soars  as  does  the  thrush  uncaged. 

High  'neath  the  eaves  upon  the  hills  of  hay 

The  boys,  now  gray,  touch  hand  and  heart  again, 

Whiles  with  insistent  monotone  above 

Murmurs  the  rain-song.     Ah,  I  love  the  sound, — 

The  soothing,  soft  re-iterance  of  the  rain! 


73 


MAID'S    SONG   IN    MOURNING 

HOURS  that  once  had  swallow  wings 

Poise  on  heavy  pinions  now; 
Reft  of  all  its  rapturings, 

Silent  hangs  the  singing  bough. 
Down  the  wind  the  voices  call, 
And  like  tears  the  raindrops  fall. 

Skies  may  beam  with  blue  again, 
Birds  may  come  to  woo  again, 

But  not  here  for  me,  dear,  and  not  here  for  you 
again! 

Barren  are  the  ways  where  erst 
Foot  to  foot  kept  married  time; 

Joy  is  like  a  bubble  burst, 

There's  a  jar  in  every  rhyme. 

Ah,  my  heart  were  not  a-cold 

Had  I,  love,  thy  hand  to  hold! 

Spring  will  lift  the  gloom  again, 
Rise  from  out  the  tomb  again, 
But  not  here  for  us,  dear,  the  bud  or  the  bloom 
again  I 

74 


THE   WARBLER 

WARBLER,  of  the  pale  gold  breast, 
Whither,  whither  away? 

The  wind  is  wild  about  the  nest, 
And  into  the  sunset  or  the  dawn 
The  cherished  nestlings  all  are  gone; 

Heigh-ho!  and  well-a-day! 

Warbler,  whither  away? 

Warbler,  of  the  pale  gold  breast, 
There's  ever  a  home,  you  say, — 

Or  be  it  east,  or  be  it  west; 

But  ah,  how  sad  to  build  and  find 
No  nestling  one  day  but  the  wind ! 

Heigh-ho!  and  well-a-day! — 

That's  what  the  lone  hearts  say. 


75 


DOVES    IN   THE   RAIN 

DULL  and  ashen  the  day; 

Drip, — you  may  hear  the  eaves; 

Drip, — you  may  see  the  leaves; 

Rillets  bubble  and  run; 

Never  a  gleam  of  sun 

While  the  gray  hours  wear  away. 


Over  the  slanting  slates, 
Under  the  cupola's  crown, 
Snowy  and  blue  and  brown, 
Crouch  the  forms  of  the  doves, 
Cooing  their  matin  loves, 
Mates  to  amorous  mates. 


Lo,  the  gloom  is  gone, 
Fades  like  a  deep  night  dream, 
Lost  in  the  sunrise  beam! 
Dazzles  before  my  eyes 
The  sweep  of  Venice  skies, 
With  their  pageantry  of  dawn; 
76 


:DOVES   IN   THE    RAIN  77 

Venice  skies  and  the  square, — 
San  Marco's  domes  ashine 
Like  the  amber  Asti  wine; 
The  giant  in  the  tower 
Hammering  out  the  hour 
On  the  hush  of  the  southern  air. 


This,  and  the  throng  of  doves 
On  the  palace  cornices, 
Flocking  crevice  and  frieze, 
With  flutter  and  perk  and  preen 
In  the  gold-shot  azure  sheen, 
As  they  murmur  of  their  loves. 

Woo  and  coo  again! — 

Yea,  I  am  well  content 

With  all  that  is  blurred  and  blent 

(Hours  of  the  radiant  past 

As  though  in  a  mirror  glassed) 

In  the  rhythmic  fall  of  the  rain ! 


AN   AUTUMN    SONG 

AGAIN  the  old  heraldic  pomp 
Of  Autumn  on  the  hills; 

A  scarlet  pageant  in  the  swamp; 
Low  lyrics  from  the  rills; 

And  a  rich  attar  in  the  air 
That  orient  morn  distils. 


Again  the  tapestry  of  haze 

Of  amethystine  dye 
Encincturing  the  horizon  ways; 

And  from  the  middle  sky 
The  iterant,  reverberant  call 

Of  wild  geese  winging  by. 


Again  the  viols  of  the  wind 
Attuned  to  one  soft  theme; — 

Here,  every  burden  left  behind, 
O  love,  would  it  not  seem 

A  near  approach  to  paradise 

To  dream  and  dream  and  dream! 


THE   WEAVER 

WHO  is  it  weaves  such  marvellous  tapestries 
In  dyes  that  dazzle  if  the  eyes  but  scan? 

Richer  of  hue  and  of  design  are  these 
Than  fabrics  Tyrian! 


Yonder  is  cloth  of  gold  more  royal  bright 
Than  that  whereon  King  Henry  Francis  met, 

When  they  put  by  the  mailed  gage  of  fight 
For  friendship's  silken  net. 


That  russet  there  is  of  a  glossier  sheen 

Then  e'er  was  donned  by  merry  Robin  Hood, 

To  lead  his  lads,  who  wore  the  Lincoln  green, 
Through  Sherwood's  shadowy  wood. 

And  yonder  scarlet  braver  far  appears 

Than  that  which  decked  the  pennons  of  the  bold 

Who  urged  the  lines  of  the  embattled  spears 
Through  the  red  wars  of  old. 
79 


8o  THE   WEAVER 

Who  is  this  weaver  in  these  wondrous  dyes 
That  works  such  magic  in  the  hours  of  gloom? 

Go,  and  perchance  to-night  you  may  surprise 
September  at  her  loom! 


THE    PIPES    OF   AUTUMN 

A  THRILL  as  of  exuberant  will 
The  rimpling  corn-fields  know, 

As  o'er  the  vale  and  up  the  hill 
The  pipes  of  Autumn  blow. 


Across  the  orchards  tremors  toss, 

And  golden  ripples  run 
O'er  hillocks  where  the  milkweed's  floss 

Is  shimmering  in  the  sun. 


Once  more  beside  the  runlet's  shore 

The  violet  opes  its  eyes; 
Once  more  the  dandelion's  ore 

As  though  May-minted  lies. 


A-blur  with  gleamy  gossamer 

Is  every  upland  lawn; 
The  woodland,  save  where  glooms  the  fir, 

Is  wrapt  in  dreams  of  dawn. 
81 


82  THE    PIPES    OF   AUTUMN 

Like  spring's  the  last  fleet  whir  of  wings, 

The  last  low  lyric  cry 
That  down  the  hazy  distance  rings 

To  dip  and  faint  and  die. 


A  thrill  takes  hold  upon  the  will 
And  sets  the  cheeks  aglow, 

As  o'er  the  vale  and  up  the  hill 
The  pipes  of  Autumn  blow. 


JOY   AND    SORROW 

SHALL  we  let  Joy  go  by, 

He  of  the  kindling  eye? 

Nay,  comrade,  nay! 

But  lo,  he  wends  his  uncompanioned  way! 


Shall  we  bid  Sorrow  bide, 

He  that  is  mournful-eyed? 

Nay,  comrade,  nay! 

But  lo,  he  lingers,  bidden  not  to  stay ! 


CONTRASTS 

AFTER  the  long  green  levels  of  the  plain, 

The  primrose  ways,  the  scented  paths  of  thyme, 

Welcome  the  slopes  that  stir  the  dormant  vein, 
The  soaring  cliffs  that  dare  the  feet  to  climb! 


After  the  dull  monotonies  of  life, 

The  placid  days  that  with  no  ripple  roll, 

Welcome  the  strain,  the  stinging  taste  of  strife, 
The  immitigable  stress  that  tests  the  soul! 


AN    INSTRUMENT 

A  HUMAN  heart,  this  was  the  instrument 

That  many,  dowered  with  cunning  skill,  essayed  ; 

Joy  fingered  it,  and  Fear  above  it  bent, 
And  Sorrow  her  pale  hands  upon  it  laid. 


Then  Anger  smote  it,  and  Despondency, 

And  Passion  swept  it  with  his  touch  of  flame; 

But  it  gave  forth  no  wondrous  melody 
Till  Love,  the  masterful  musician,  came. 


TIME 

TIME  oft  is  limned  decrepit,  wizened,  old, 

With  wintry  hair  rough  shaken  by  the  breeze, 

One  who  on  life  has  but  a  feeble  hold, 
A  graybeard  ambling  upon  tottering  knees. 


Ah,  the  dull  folly  of  such  portraiture! 

Time  gray?    Time  old?     See  how  he  runs,  for 
sooth  ! 
Within  his  veins  there  courses,  swift  and  sure, 

The  Olympian  ichor  of  eternal  youth! 


86 


THE    HAUNTS    OF   YOUTH 

DOUBTER,  say,  wouldst  thou  behold 
Essence  that  is  never  old? 
Wouldst  thou  gaze  and  dwell  upon 
Energies  that  sing  and  run 
Ever  vital,  true  and  tense 
In  their  vernal  innocence? 
From  thy  dullard  dreamery 
Rise  thou,  then,  and  come  with  me 
Where  the  forest  shadows  fall! — 
There  is  youth  perpetual. 

Never  burn  the  fires  so  low 
Underneath  the  shroud  of  snow 
That  they  are  not  swift  to  leap 
Lissome  from  the  trance  of  sleep; 
E'en  behind  the  deepest  moan 
Hides  a  hint  of  virile  tone; 
In  the  darkest  shades  withdrawn 
Waits  the  golden  lily, — dawn! 
Youth,  the  forest's  fairest  thrall, 
Youth  abides  perpetual. 


SNOWFALL 

STAINLESS  as  Truth,  or  Purity's  white  face, 
Behold  the  snow  fall!     Never  came  a  dream 
On  lighter  pinions  from  the  courts  of  Sleep. 
What  is  as  soft  as  this  aerial  fleece, 
This  visual  foam  upon  the  unseen  air, 
Unless  it  be  the  sweep  of  seraph's  wings 
Down  the  inviolate  ways  of  Paradise! 
Or,  cool  on  the  contracted  brow  of  Pain, 
The  healing  touch  of  Death's  caressing  hand ! 


88 


WINTER   DREAMS 

ALL  the  voices  of  the  wind 
Sank  to  slumber  with  the  sun; 

Lest  the  ways  of  night  be  blind, 
Burn  the  beacons  one  by  one 

Where  the  bastions  of  the  sky 

In  their  ancient  wonder  lie. 

Wide  the  solitudes  of  snow, 
Flawed  by  no  assoiling  breath, 

Slumber  in  the  spectral  glow, 
Wan  as  is  the  face  of  death ; 

Fixed  in  fear  the  woodland  seems, 

And  the  air  is  full  of  dreams. 


One  of  this  ethereal  brood 
Fate  has  bidden  comrade  me: 

Suddenly  my  sombre  mood 
Kindles  to  expectancy, 

And  there  beat  within  my  brain 

Presages  of  April  rain. 


9o  WINTER   DREAMS 

Oh,  for  all  the  dreams  of  night, 
If  this  transient  one  has  power 

So  to  touch  the  source  of  light, 
So  to  set  the  gloom  aflower! 

Then,  mayhap,  to  stay  my  need, 

In  my  heart  were  spring  indeed. 


THE   WHITE   BIRCH 

OVER  the  lonely  uplands 

The  snows  of  the  north  are  blown, 
And  the  white  birch  of  the  forest 

At  last  has  won  to  its  own. 


We  watched  it  through  the  spring-time, 

Clad  in  its  silvery  spray, 
And  fell  in  a  maze  of  wonder 

At  the  graceful,  pale  estray. 


We  marked  it  through  the  summer, 

Tenuous,  tall  and  thin, 
And  we  thought  of  it,  touched  with  pity, 

That  it  sorrowed  for  its  kin. 

We  gazed  on  through  the  autumn, 
When  the  rich  year  pomps  it  by, 

And  we  saw  it  fold  about  it 
The  alien  gold  of  the  sky. 

91 


9z  THE   WHITE   BIRCH 

But  now  that  a  samite  vesture 
Over  all  the  earth  is  thrown, 

The  white  birch  of  the  forest 
At  last  has  won  to  its  own. 


HOMESICK 

HERE,  within  Winter's  white  domain, 
I  am  as  one  who  has  no  place, 

For  all  the  diverse  ways  contain 
No  fair  familiar  face. 

My  old-time  comrades,— bees  and  birds, 
The  little  leaves  that  love  the  sun, 

With  their  companionable  words, — 
Alas,  I  hear  not  one! 


Not  one ! — and  to  my  aching  heart, 

As  through  this  spectral  realm  I  roam, 

Comes  the  inexorable  smart, — 
The  wander-cry  for  home. 

O  Summer,  hearken,  I  implore, 

You  with  the  eyes  benign  and  mild! 

To  your  caressing  arms  once  more 
Take  back  your  homesick  child ! 


93 


WINTER   ON   THE    HILLS 

WHAT  do  the  city  houselings  know 

Of  Winter  hale  and  hoar, 
Who  crouch  beside  the  back-log's  glow 

Behind  the  battened  door? 


Not  theirs  the  wonder  of  the  waste, — 
White  league  on  league  out-rolled; 

Not  theirs  'neath  spacious  skies  to  taste 
The  tonic  of  the  cold! 


Not  theirs  the  North-Wind's  breath  to  breast 

Till  each  vein  tingles  warm 
The  while  he  drives  along  the  west 

The  horses  of  the  storm! 


Not  theirs  the  snows  as  soft  as  sleep 
That  hill  and  hollow  hood; 

Nor  the  oracular  silence  deep 
Within  the  druid  wood! 
94 


WINTER   ON   THE   HILLS  95 

Not  theirs  by  night,  undimmed,  to  mark 

The  spangles  of  the  Bear; 
Nor  through  the  dark  from  arc  to  arc 

The  pale  auroras  flare! 

Not  theirs  to  share  the  proffered  part 

Of  wealth  he  holds  in  store  ; 
Not  theirs  to  know  the  constant  heart 

Of  Winter  hale  and  hoar! 


A   WINTER   NIGHT 

I  HEAR  the  casement  creak  and  clang, 
The  frosted  fir  boughs  gasp  and  groan; 

And  the  lone  wind  is  like  a  hound 
That  growls  and  crunches  on  a  bone. 

I  raise  the  curtain ;  ne'er  a  star 

Pricks  the  vast  vault,  but  snowy  spume 

Cloaks  monstrous  shapes  that  ride  the  night 
Like  evil  wraiths,  and  trumpet  "  doom!  " 

The  angry  whip-cords  of  the  sleet 
The  windows  lash,  as  they  were  fain 

To  fling  defiance  in  my  face 

Through  the  thin  rampart  of  the  pane. 

It  is  as  though  the  door  of  Dread 

Had  yawned,  with  a  portentous  birth; 

And  yet,  let  but  the  morning  dawn, 
And  lo,  how  white  the  peace  of  earth! 


96 


THE    OLD   YEAR   TO   THE    NEW 

THE  snows  of  death  are  drifting  deep, 
And  I  have  nothing  left  to  gain, 

Save  the  long  legacy  of  sleep 

Beyond  the  reach  of  joy  or  pain. 


But  you,  the  lithe  and  strong  of  thew, — 
For  you  the  onward-luring  star, 

The  splendors  of  the  sun, — for  you 
Youth's  ardors  that  eternal  are; 


To  note  the  spring's  ecstatic  stir, 
The  faint  red  maple-buds  unclose; 

To  be  the  violet's  worshipper, 
And  play  the  wooer  to  the  rose; 

To  watch  the  swallow,  swift  of  wing, 
Soaring  across  the  sky's  blue  nave; 

To  hear  the  minstrel  oriole  sing, 
A  rapture  in  each  golden  stave; 
97 


98         THE    OLD   YEAR   TO  THE   NEW 

To  know  love's  sweet  companionship 
Along  the  wonder-haloed  height; 

To  press  unto  the  eager  lip 

The  purple  fruitage  of  delight. 

Yours  the  glad  sowing  of  the  grain, 
The  harvest  happiness  to  reap; 

While  I  have  nothing  left  to  gain, 
Save  the  long  legacy  of  sleep. 


IN   THE    MAPLE   WOOD 

CRIMSON  burn  the  briar-tips  now 
As  the  sky  at  vesper-vow; 

And  the  sap  within  the  maple 
Tingles  to  the  topmost  bough. 


From  its  winter-long  repose 

Wakes  the  wood;  the  bonfire  glows; 

Up  and  down  the  leafless  arches 
Rings  the  clamor  of  the  crows. 

And  from  early  morning-dream, 
Freed  by  the  awakening  beam, 

How  the  sap  into  the  buckets 
Trickles  in  a  silvery  stream! 


Where  the  maples  thickest  throng 
Plod  the  toilers  late  and  long, 

While  the  low  voice  of  the  caldron 
Sings  its  ceaseless  sugar-song. 
99 


ioo  IN   THE    MAPLE    WOOD 

Hither  when  the  aisles  grow  dim 
And  the  pine  knots  flare  and  swim, 

Comes  a  group  of  laughing  lasses, 
Cheeks  aglow  and  eyes  abrim. 


Then  the  merriment  has  flow, 
Quips  go  darting  to  and  fro, 

While  the  more  than  honeyed  nectar 
Turns  to  sugar  in  the  snow. 

And  if  sweeter  things  than  this 
Chance  (a  surreptitious  kiss!) 

Where's  the  man  or  where's  the  maiden 
Who  would  count  such  joy  amiss? 


For  when  winter's  fetters  part, 
And  the  maple  juices  start, 

Then  it  is,  my  maids  and  masters, 
Stirs  the  love-tide  in  the  heart! 


JIM    CROW 

OH,  say,  Jim  Crow, 
Why  is  it  you  always  go 
With  a  gloomy  coat  of  black 
The  year  long  on  your  back? 
Why  don't  you  change  its  hue, 
At  least  for  a  day  or  two, 
To  red  or  green  or  blue? 
And  why  do  you  always  wear 
Such  a  sober,  sombre  air, 
As  glum  as  the  face  of  Care? 
I  wait  for  your  reply, 

And  into  the  peaceful  pause 
There  comes  your  curious,  croaking  cry,- 

"  Oh,  because!  'cause!  'cause!" 


Oh,  say,  Jim  Crow, 

Why,  when  the  farmers  sow, 

And  the  corn  springs  up  in  the  row, 

And  the  days  that  once  were  brief 

Grow  long,  and  laugh  into  leaf, 

Do  you  play  the  rascally  thief? 


JIM    CROW 

I  can  see  by  the  look  in  your  eye, — 
Wary  and  wise  and  sly, — 

That  you  know  the  code  in  vogue; 
Why  will  you,  then,  oh,  why, 

Persist  in  the  path  of  the  rogue? 
I  hearken  for  your  reply, 

And  into  the  empty  pause 
There  rings  your  graceless,  grating  cry,- 

"  Oh,  because !   'cause !  'cause !  " 


And  say,  Jim  Crow, 

With  all  of  the  lore  you  know, — 

Lore  of  the  wood  and  field, 
Lore  of  the  clouds,  and  the  clear 
Depths  of  the  atmosphere, 

To  our  duller  ken  concealed, — 
Why  is  it  you  ever  speak 
With  a  mingled  squawk  and  a  squeak? 
You,  with  your  talents  all, 

And  your  knowledge  of  this  and  that, 
Why  must  you  sing  like  a  squall, 

And  talk  like  a  perfect  "  flat?  " 
I  listen  for  your  reply, 

But  in  the  lapse  and  the  pause 
All  I  hear  is  your  impudent  cry, — 

"  Oh,  because !  'cause !  'cause !  " 


CANDLEMAS    SONG 

"  BRUIN,  bruin, 
You'll  be  a-ruin' 
That  you  stuck  your  nose  out, 
Or  your  toes  out, 
From  the  cosey  tavern 
Of  your  cavern, — 
From  the  dim  and  dun  light 
Into  the  sunlight! 
For  there's  your  shadow; 

See  it,  see  it  go 
Down  the  meadow 

And  over  the  snow! 
But  while  your  cave  is  cosey, 
It  must  get  rather  prosy, 
This  sleeping  and  this  dreaming, 
This  life  that's  only  seeming, 
For  visionary  honey, 
And  visionary  money, 
We're  not  suin', 
Eh,  bruin,  bruin? 
103 


io4  CANDLEMAS    SONG 

"  And  bruin,  bruin, 
We,  too,  are  a-ruin' 
That  same  shadow 
Down  there  on  the  meadow! 
We've  had  enough  of  housing, — 

Crouching  by  the  ingle; 

Out  in  the  dingle 
We'd  like  to  be  carousing; 
Hearkening  the  jostle 
Of  the  wren  and  throstle; 
Just  gazing, 
Loitering  and  lazing, 
Joying  in  our  journey 
Where  the  ways  are  ferny. 
But  oh,  there're  six  weeks  yet  of  it ! 
Ah,  the  gray  regret  of  it! 
And  the  wind  and  wet  of  it! 
And  though  it's  a  shame 
To  hold  that  you're  to  blame, 
It  somehow  seems  as  though  it  were  your  doin', 
O  bruin,  bruin !  " 


THE    WANDERER    AT    HOME 

OF  yore,  when  Mother  Fate  was  kind, 
And  I  was  hale  and  lithe  of  limb, 

I  was  the  comrade  of  the  Wind, 

And  roved  God's  spacious  earth  with  him. 

And  now  that  Age  hath  chained  me  here 
Where  dreams  are  like  a  tidal  sea, 

He  comes  and  gossips  in  mine  ear 
With  all  his  ancient  comradery. 

He  tells  me  how  the  Wye  still  glides 
By  Tintern  in  its  cloistral  vale; 

And  how  by  Isis'  bowery  sides 

Still  pleads  the  leaf-hid  nightingale. 

He  voices  the  soft  songs  they  sing 

Where  Venice  fronts  the  Adrian  main, 

And  the  faint  lyric  call  of  spring 
Across  the  lone  Campanian  plain. 

105 


io6          THE   WANDERER  AT    HOME 

He  bids  me  list  the  Alpine  horn 

From  heights  with  spectral  light  ashine, 

And  the  young  shepherd's  shout  when  morn 
Lifts  from  the  blue  /Egean  brine. 


He  iterates  the  pilgrim's  cry, 
In  that  mysterious  nomad  land 

Where  the  Sphinx  crouches  deathlessly,- 
Allah-il- Allah, — o'er  the  sand. 


And  ere  he  goes  his  wandering  way 
He  breathes  the  fragment  of  a  tune 

I  once  heard  gem-bright  fingers  play 
Beneath  a  golden  Shiraz  moon. 


And  so,  though  I  may  roam  no  more 
About  the  world  from  end  to  end, 

Yet  can  I  touch  the  furthest  shore 

Who  have  the  journeying  Wind  for  friend. 


THE    ISLE    OF   GLAMOURIE 

SET  in  the  midst  of  a  silver  sea 

Is  the  radiant  isle  of  Glamourie; 

In  crescent  coves  and  in  coral  caves 

Sink  and  swell  the  sound  of  the  waves, 

Like  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  tune 

Stolen  out  of  the  heart  of  June. 

There  do  marvellous  portals  ope 

To  the  precious  palace-halls  of  Hope; 

And  through  the  lovely  labyrinth, 

Climbing  pillar  and  clasping  plinth, 

Is  the  slender  vine  of  the  jasmine-flower, 

Filling  with  fragrance  every  hour. 

Paved  with  pearl  are  the  winding  ways, 

Opal,  agate,  and  chrysoprase; 

And  down  long  vistas  of  pendulous  palms, 

With  sunlight  flooding  the  arches  tall, 

Throughout  the  lingering  noontide  calms 

Waterfall  calls  to  waterfall. 

How  shall  we  sail  o'er  the  silver  sea 
To  the  radiant  isle  of  Glamourie? 
Just  at  the  violet  verge  of  dark, 
Then,  forsooth,  is  the  happy  time, 
107 


io8  THE    ISLE   OF    GLAMOURIE 

For  Fancy  then,  in  her  fairy  bark, 

Glides  away  like  a  golden  rhyme 

Over  the  waves  to  the  coral  caves 

And  the  crescent  coves  that  the  blue  tide  laves! 

O  to  come  to  that  glorious  isle 

Again  with  the  dew-fresh  heart  of  youth, 

With  never  a  dream  in  the  brain  of  guile, 

And  never  a  doubt  that  all  is  truth ! 

And  ah,  the  noble  company 

In  the  radiant  isle  of  Glamourie! 

There,  in  the  deepest,  dimmest  dell, 

Doth  the  fair  enchanted  Princess  dwell; 

There  Prester  John  goes  galloping  by 

To  the  lilt  of  his  stirring  battle-cry; 

There  doth  the  valorous  Cid  abide, 

And  Roland,  whom  song  hath  glorified, — 

Haroun,  the  Orient's  splendid  star, 

Sir  Galahad,  the  stainless  knight, 

And  the  King  who  foremost  flashed  in  the  fight 

The  burning  brand  Excalibar. 


We  have  all  been  there  in  the  crystal  air, 
Where  the  sweep  of  the  sky  is  ever  fair; 
We  would  all  go  back  o'er  the  silver  sea, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  crowding  care 
To  the  wonderful  isle  of  Glamourie! 


THE    FOUNT   OF    PAVENAY 

WHEN  morning  set  her  crimson  crown 

Upon  the  Easter  day, 
Saint  Isadore  came  winding  down 

The  paths  of  Pavenay. 


He  saw  through  all  the  billowing  land 
The  Spring  beside  her  loom, — 

The  vernal  magic  of  her  hand 
In  weaving  bud  and  bloom. 

And  as  his  footsteps  drew  anigh 
The  huddled  hamlet  square, 

He  heard  mount  up  the  April  sky 
The  plaintive  sound  of  prayer. 


"  O  Thou  that  dwellest,"  cried  a  voice, 
"  Where  wells  eternal  flow, 

Make  Thou  our  longing  hearts  rejoice, 
A  healing  boon  bestow: 
109 


no  THE    FOUNT    OF    PAVENAY 

"  Brim  Thou  this  basin's  cup  once  more 
With  Thy  reviving  dew !  " — 

Then  forward  pressed  Saint  Isadore 
The  sealed  fount  to  view. 


He  thrust  the  throng  aside,  as  chaff 
Before  the  wind  is  blown; 

And  with  his  oaken  pilgrim  staff 
He  smote  the  thirsty  stone. 


It  seemed  as  though  that  sturdy  blow 

Cast  off  the  choking  spell; 
For  lo,  the  fount  began  to  flow, 

A  pure  and  living  well  ! 

And  never,  from  that  Easter  hour, 

It  ceased  to  sing  and  run, 
Through  changing  days  of  frost  and  flower,- 

Of  shifting  shade  and  sun. 

And  ever,  when  the  young  year  wore 

Her  Easter  garments  gay, 
Rang  praise  to  good  Saint  Isadore 

Through  gray  old  Pavenay. 


AZALAIS 

IT  was  the  maiden  Azalais; 

And  fairer  was  her  hair  to  see 

Than  any  garnered  golden  sheaf, — 

Than  any  ambered  linden  leaf 

Down  drifting  through  the  autumn  days, 

When  the  sweet  autumn  days  grow  brief; 

And  of  her  deep  eyes,  verily, 

It  might  be  said, — no  pool  there  lies 

Brooding,  without  or  stain  or  stir, 

Beneath  God's  radiant  reach  of  skies 

More  wondrous  than  the  eyes  of  her. 

It  was  the  maiden  Azalais; 

And  one  there  came  with  casques  of  gold 

And  gems  from  Ophir,  and  before 

Her  feet  outspread  the  precious  store, 

With  cunning-coined  words  of  praise, 

With  honey-hearted  metaphor. 

And  yet  she  looked  upon  him  cold 

And  haughtily,  nor  smiled  at  all; 

Fool,  thus  to  think  to  win  her  grace 

Who  purity  perennial 

Wore  on  the  rondure  of  her  face! 


ii2  AZALAIS 

It  was  the  maiden  Azalais; 

And  one  bright-raimented  in  mail, 

With  twi-edged  falchion,  scabbard  drawn, 

That  flashed  as  doth  the  blade  of  dawn, 

Made  her  obeisance  with  bold  gaze, 

And  craved  that  she  would  think  upon 

Vale  billowing  upon  verdant  vale, 

His  fief  by  conquest,  all  her  own 

Would  she  but  hearken  to  his  suit; 

Dolt,  how  he  slunk  away  alone 

When  with  her  scorn  she  smote  him  mute! 

It  was  the  maiden  Azalais; 

And  one  in  pilgrim  russet  clad, 

Yet  with  a  bearing  rapt  as  his 

Who  knows  the  soul-impassioned  kiss 

Of  lofty  love  inspire  his  ways, 

Besought  her;  and  her  heart  grew  glad 

Listing  to  Love's  sweet  litanies, — 

His  dear  and  fair  and  fond  demands. 

Ah,  wise  one,  thus  to  woo, — and  win! 

For  not  through  wealth  nor  falchioned  hands 

Love  to  his  kingdom  enters  in  1 


GUIDO,   THE   GONDOLIER 

Over  the  long  lagoon 

The  orient  gold  of  the  moon; 

Out  of  the  gardens  blown 

The  rose's  spicery, 

And  the  low  and  languid  moan 

Of  the  Adriatic  sea! 

Night  in  Venice, — night, 
With  its  web  of  spangled  dreams! 
The  Grand  Canal  alight 
With  a  myriad  lantern-beams; 
Music  in  languorous  bars 
From  a  maze  of  strummed  guitars; 
Lattices  open  thrown, 
And  balconies  wreathed  with  bloom ; 
Gloom? — not  a  ghost  of  gloom 
In  the  queenly  island-town, 
(The  sculptured  flower  of  stone 
That  beauty-lovers  praise) 
But  song  borne  far  adown 
Through  all  of  its  water-ways! 
113 


n4  GUIDO,    THE    GONDOLIER 

Song? — aye,  strain  on  strain, 
With  ever  the  one  refrain! 
Love, — its  glamour  and  gleam; 
Love, — the  rapture-dream ! 
And  the  clearest  voice  in  all 
Of  the  crowded  carnival, 
The  most  ecstatic  note 
On  the  night-tide  set  afloat 
(Golden  ripple  and  run 
Like  a  heavenly  antiphon) 
That  many  hung  mute  to  hear, 
Was  that  of  a  youth, — of  one 
Guido,  the  gondolier. 


As  blithe  he  was  to  see 

As  the  lad  of  the  Latmian  glen, 

The  hale  Endymion,  when 

He  wooed  the  queen  of  the  night; 

Yet  upon  no  goddess  he, 

Whose  song  was  without  a  peer, 

Had  turned  his  yearning  sight, 

But  the  Doge's  daughter,  pure 

As  the  Maytime  of  the  year; 

And  she  loved  this  troubadour, 

Guido,  the  gondolier. 


GUIDO,    THE    GONDOLIER  115 

The  moon-smile  touches  the  earth; 
The  bird  dips  out  of  the  air; 
Thus  Love,  of  immortal  birth, 
Joineth  the  high  and  low, 
Until  it  is  theirs  to  know 
Bliss  or  divine  despair. 
"  The  garden  water-stair 
At  the  heart  of  the  carnival  night !  " 
This  was  the  word  that  came, 
And  fanned  his  soul  to  a  flame, 
And  thither,  without  a  fear, 
Sped,  with  his  oar-sweep  light, 
Guido,  the  gondolier. 


One  little  liquid  trill, 

Such  as  the  nightingales  spill, 

When  the  first  star  burns  on  the  breast 

Of  the  violet-colored  west, 

Then,  a  face  like  the  sudden  bloom 

Of  dawn  in  the  scented  gloom! 

Afar,  from  wall  to  wall, 

Echoed  the  carnival; 

Song,  in  a  passionate  tide, 

Swelled,  drooped,  but  never  died; 

"  Rejoice !  "  all  Venice  cried, 


n6  GUIDO,    THE   GONDOLIER 

And  the  skies  gave  back,  "Rejoice!" 
But  a  voice  men  longed  to  hear 
Was  lifted  not, — his  voice, — 
Guido,  the  gondolier. 

From  out  of  the  byways  dim, 

What  long  and  shadowy  shape 

Makes  sudden  swift  escape, 

And  seems  like  a  gull  to  swim 

Over  the  broad  lagoon, 

In  the  radiant  flood  of  the  moon? 

A  gondola,  wherein  twain, 

Fain  as  a  flower  is  fain 

Of  the  sun,  know  naught  save  the  bliss 

Of  love,  and  a  lover's  kiss! 

The  Doge's  daughter  dear, 

And  her  blithesome  minstrel-swain, 

Guido,  the  gondolier. 

Why  follow  them  o'er  the  foam? 
They  heeded  the  world-old  call, 
Caught  in  its  wondrous  thrall; 
Ravenna,  Rimini,  Rome? — 
Nay,  'tis  the  Land  of  Love 
(Ah,  the  happiness  thereof!) 
That  is  henceforth  their  home! 


GUIDO,   THE    GONDOLIER  117 

A  vision  of  youth's  delight, 
They  vanished  into  the  night, — 
The  night  of  a  bygone  year, — 
The  Doge's  daughter  fair, 
Fearless  and  debonair, 
And  Guido,  the  gondolier. 


LIFT   UP   THINE    EYES 

COMRADE,  that  seek'st  the  clue 
Of  whence  and  whither  to, 
Rather,  in  trust,  let  be 
The  shrouded  mystery! 
Brood  not,  but  toward  the  skies 
Lift  up  thine  eyes! 


If  the  sworn  friendship  fail, 
And  fleering  foes  assail, 
If  Love,  half-deified, 
Turn  scornfully  aside, 
If  ogre  Doubt  arise, 
Lift  up  thine  eyes! 


Grip  faith  to  thee  (not  fate!) 
In  the  good  ultimate! 
With  this,  from  sun  to  sun 
Until  thy  race  be  run, 
And  the  last  daylight  dies, 
Lift  up  thine  eyes! 


118 


This  first  edition  of  THE  LYRIC 
BOUGH  consists  of  five  hundred  copies 
on  laid  paper  and  twenty  -  five 
copies  on  Ruisdael  hand-made  paper. 


A     000  551  558     0 


